This morning Tre and Max
Ok, I’m going to have

I’m sooooo tired. Stupid tired.

I’m sooooo tired. Stupid tired. Sit and stare tired. I’m tired.
See, I decided it’s time Max slept in his own bed. All night. A few years ago, Max went through an intense period of nightmares. Nightmares, night terrors, I don’t know what it was, but it was awful. He would thrash and yell and claw at the covers, and weep loudly. The only thing that helped was for me to hold him. I would wrap my arms tightly around him and whisper in his ear, “It’s ok, Mama’s here. You’re ok. Shhhhh.” He would calm down after a few minutes and go back to sleep. But then a few hours later he would be crying again. During the really horrible period he would have five or more nightmares a night.
At first I would go to his bed, pick him up, and sit with him in the rocking chair. But he was sharing a room with both of his brothers at the time, and I didn’t want to wake them up. Plus, I got so tired. As the nights wore on, I got more exhausted. Eventually I gave up and just carried him to my bed, so I could snooze between episodes.
This was when Max was three. Over the past two years these nightmares have slowly dwindled. And now he goes weeks without one. But for so long he was racing for my bed in the middle of the night, terrified, that now he’s used to it. About 1 a.m. or so he comes trotting into my room, clambers up, and snuggles down next to me.
Well, he’s five now. And he’s not having nearly so many nightmares. So I decided it’s time for him to get used to sleeping in his own bed. We talked about it, and he frowned at me mulishly. “I don’t WANT to sleep in my bed. I want to sleep in YOURS.” Yeah, kid, I thought, tell it to Freud. But what I said was lots of comforting and encouraging things about how much older and more capable he was becoming. How proud I was of the way he was growing up, and how I knew he could do this. He was still glaring at me, so I added the offer of a special treat once he had spent a whole week in his own bed. That was intriguing, so he cautiously agreed.
Last night I walked that boy back to his bed so many times, I don’t think I need any exercise for a week.
I kept count, and I’m pretty sure he tried to climb in my bed seven trillion and four times. Really.
But he didn’t get upset, and when he woke up this morning (at an entirely ungodly hour), he was actually quite pleased with himself.
As I was tucking him in tonight he smiled smugly at me and said, “You’re so proud of me, aren’t you?”
You betcha, baby.


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